


I am half sick of shadows

by niennathegrey



Series: it's a (space) fairytale [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Arthurian legend - Freeform, Courtly Love, Epistolary, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, Inspired by The Lady of Shalott, Meet-Cute, Soft Ben Solo, Strangers to Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23879041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niennathegrey/pseuds/niennathegrey
Summary: “She knows not what the curse may beAnd so she weaveth steadilyAnd little other care hath she,The Lady of Shalott.”— “The Lady of Shalott,” Alfred Lord Tennyson(But sometimes there are no curses, except those you carry around with you. And sometimes, all you need is a little help to see that.)
Relationships: Kylo Ren & Rey, Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey & Ben Solo, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: it's a (space) fairytale [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2122413
Comments: 15
Kudos: 38
Collections: Anniversary Fic Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Galactic_Enantiomers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galactic_Enantiomers/gifts).



> Written as part of the Reylo Writing Den’s anniversary fic exchange. 
> 
> I chose to write for your “medieval AU” prompt and came up with something largely inspired by Arthurian legend. Hope you enjoy it! :D

A long time ago, in a land far, far away, there was a kingdom called Alderaan. And in that kingdom, there was a river wide and deep; and in that river there was an island: the island of Jakku.

And on Jakku was a tower, squat and solitary, ringed by a wall of sun-baked stone. No one knew when it had been built, nor how long it had stood, nor whether anyone lived there at all. Sometimes, on balmy afternoons or cold starlit nights, those passing by Jakku would catch the faint sound of singing in the air. “A ghost,” some said; “nay, a fairy,” said others; “a witch, for certain,” said still others. One and all, they crossed themselves and hurried away, not daring to look back until the unseen singer’s voice had faded into silence. 

Now the river flowed down, down by a castle, and in that castle lived a family: the Queen, her brother the Prince, and her son the Crown Prince. 

The Crown Prince, though a fair and just man, was also rather melancholic by nature. He was much in the habit of taking solitary walks or rides beyond the confines of the castle keep, to collect himself when the pomp and bustle of court wearied him (which it often did). And it is here that our tale truly begins; for as he rode by Jakku one day, he too heard the singing from the lonely isle.

It was summer then — a golden summer where the fruits hung many and ripe upon the trees. The song was light and lilting, such as maids sing when they go to market two by two in their bonny scarlet cloaks. The Crown Prince’s heart rose along with the notes; and so caught was he that he pulled up his reins to listen. He gazed across the river at the tower window, but try as he might, he could see only a hazy glimpse of auburn and blue. 

On he rode, glancing back over his shoulder as the song faded away. He passed that way again some time later as he returned to the castle; but now the singer was silent and the window shadowed. He was undaunted, however, his curiosity now stoked rather than doused. He resolved to return the next day — to learn who was in the tower, if he could; and at the least, to listen to her song, if he could not. 

***

She who lived in the tower — as the Crown Prince would soon learn — was neither ghost, nor fairy, nor witch, but a girl as mortal as you or I.

She had seen him ride by in her mirror, hair, clothes, and horse all dark against the green grass of the riverbank. She had seen him stop and look up at her window, unmoving and intent. 

Her fingers had slowed, though not stopped, upon her loom. Her voice had faltered for an instant; and then she had continued, though perhaps more breathlessly than a moment ago.

She knew not what to think. Part of her was uneasy, as are we all when something is new and unknown. And yet — as she gazed at the dark man’s reflection, quite as fascinated by him as he seemed to be by her — part of her rather hoped that he would come again.

If he did, she decided, she would sing for him — as loudly and as gaily as she could.

* * *

The Crown Prince did return the next day — the girl could not mistake him. He was on foot now; and he walked slowly along the riverbank, stopping every so often to tilt his head — as though listening for something.

His size notwithstanding, he rather reminded her of a dark, curious bird; and she smiled to see him. She sang, then, in much the same style as the day before. Today she sang of a girl setting off to seek adventure and love, and of her family remonstrating with her to stay home and take her head from the clouds. 

Perhaps something of her joy sweetened her voice; for as the first notes rose into the air, the Crown Prince stopped at once and turned towards the tower. As she sang on, he drifted, like one in a dream, closer and closer to the edge of the bank. And when she had done, still he stood there, as though rooted to that small patch of grass.

The girl wished to see his face. Did he stand slack-jawed, dumb with amazement? Or did he perhaps smile, cheered by her song?

She stood, turning her back to the loom and the mirror. In three paces, she was across the room, leaning out the window into the warmth of the afternoon. There below was the faithful listener, his face turned up towards her.

Their eyes met, and they looked at each other in recognition and wonder. Neither could have reckoned how long they stood gazing thus. It might have been a moment, or an eternity. 

Then the girl remembered herself, and grew afraid. She whirled around again and ducked out of sight, sagging against the wall. Her heart galloped within her. “The curse is come upon me,” she murmured. A sob rose in her throat, and she pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle the sound.

She heard him call out — it sounded as though he cried, “Wait!” Then there was silence — and then a splash, as of a heavy body hitting the water. 

Back to the window she rushed. Now the bank was empty, save for a black doublet lying abandoned on the grass. The Crown Prince, meanwhile, was in the river, a dark dot swimming towards Jakku.

In truth, this was less than wise. The river was generally calm, but — as I said at the beginning of our tale — wide and deep. Furthermore, though the Crown Prince excelled at all the customary pastimes of noblemen — riding, hunting, swordplay, and all — he was not accustomed to swimming, having not had much chance to practice since his childhood, when he had first learned. His foot became caught between two large rocks jutting up from the riverbed, and he flailed about wildly to free himself. 

The girl wavered for an instant — and then rushed out of the tower room, down the spiraling stairs, and out the door. As she reached the water’s edge, she saw that he was still approaching, though it was clearly a struggle. 

A stone’s throw or two from the shore, the Crown Prince grew weary and began to sink. He bobbed up above the water once more, but sank just as quickly. The next time, he was slower to rise than to sink.

The girl bit her lip; and when the Crown Prince sank a third time, she dove into the river herself. This, too, was not very wise; for she was no swimmer either. However, curse or no, fear or no, she did not wish him to drown. 

When she reached him, she secured him with an arm wrapped around his chest. He was a tall and broad man, the Crown Prince; and for a brief and terrifying moment, the girl feared he would prove too heavy for her and they would both drown. Nevertheless, she persisted; and with much kicking and thrashing, she managed to bring them both back onto the shores of Jakku. 

After the girl had gotten her breath back, she turned to examine the Crown Prince. His chest rose and fell slowly, for which she was relieved; but else he lay still and silent. “Wake up!” she cried, shaking his shoulder.

When this failed to rouse him, she fell to studying his face. It was quite different from those in her (few) books, or even those of other men she had seen in her mirror. In truth, it was a face that some would deem handsome, and others deem the opposite (as many at court and throughout the kingdom debated, fiercely and often). The girl was one of the former; for she found there was something arresting about its strong angles, large nose, and full mouth. He had a handful of small marks — rather like her own freckles, except darker and much fewer — scattered across his face; and these she traced with a light, curious finger. “Please wake up,” she said again, more softly this time.

As if roused by either her touch or her voice — or both — the Crown Prince awoke with a gasp and a shudder. The girl started back as he rolled to one side and coughed up the water from his lungs. When he had done, he slumped back onto the grass, and the girl leaned over him cautiously. “Are… are you well?” she asked.

“Are you an angel?” he asked, his voice hoarse and thin from coughing. “Did I drown indeed?” 

The girl’s jaw dropped; and she laughed a little, as some do when taken by surprise and unsure how to proceed. “Nay, sir, we are both alive.”

“A fairy, then? Or a witch?” he continued, with another cough. “For so the people of Alderaan think you.”

“Neither and none,” she replied. “I am as mortal as you are, and quite ordinary besides.”

The Crown Prince did not quite agree with this, and would have disputed with her. However, the girl rose to her feet, as if to forestall him. “Nay,” she said, with a firm shake of her head, “further questions must wait. Come, we must both change into dry things.” She stretched a hand out to him.

His eyes grew wide, and he looked from her hand to her face and back again. You must understand — having been born and bred in a castle, he was rather discomfited at the thought of disrobing in the presence of a lady and a stranger.

The girl, for her part, seemed not to share his scruples, for she merely raised an eyebrow at him. “Sir,” she said, rather impatiently, “this wet dress grows very uncomfortable, and I am sure you cannot be much better off. Also you have already half-drowned yourself; I would not have you catch your death of cold on my account as well.”

All at once, the Crown Prince realized that he was perhaps about to learn the nature of one of Alderaan’s greatest mysteries. He knew also that such a chance would likely never occur again; and so he chose curiosity over caution. 

He took the girl’s hand and allowed her to help him up. Together, they entered the tower and made their way back up the winding stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not very historically accurate, I know, but [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1g7XO7gICAo) is the song I imagine Rey singing when Ben comes back to the tower.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thanks to Maggie for patiently listening as I dithered over word choices and yelled excitedly in her virtual ear at every stage of writing; and to the good folks at the Reylo Writing Den for their feedback and patience as I worked on this in sprints. ❤

When they returned to the little room at the top of the tower, the girl sat the Crown Prince down on the nearest seat and rushed to start a fire. The Crown Prince, meanwhile, felt rather churlish simply sitting there as she bustled about _(_ _what would his mother say?_ ), and said, “Please, allow me—” 

“Nay, sir,” was the girl’s brisk answer as she poked at the wood in the hearth, “I have it. You should rest.” When the fire blazed up in earnest, she set a small kettle to boil over the flames. Having thus provided for them, she looked with deliberation at the Crown Prince, then down at her own wet dress, and back again. Then she fetched a towel and a large, woven blanket from a trunk and approached him, holding the bundle of cloth out as if in offering. “Will you take off your clothes?” she asked. 

You may well imagine the Crown Prince’s chagrin at her request. “I-I beg your pardon?” said he, eyes wide and cheeks red as roses.

The girl huffed at him and flapped her hand, and the linens therein. “Recall what I said earlier, about not catching your death of cold. I mean to dry them by the fire.”

It was not that the Crown Prince knew not how to behave around ladies, you must understand. Rather, it was that he knew not how to behave around _this particular_ lady. The girl was forthright and artless — nothing like the ladies of court, with their coy smiles and practiced flirtation. 

He was not quite so fastidious as to deny the sense of her request. (Also his breeches and boots _were_ beginning to cling to him rather unpleasantly.) However, his sense of propriety, formed both by his formidable mother and by the most exacting tutors in the kingdom, prompted him to ask her to turn her back as he disrobed.

"As you like," said the girl with a shrug. She set the towel and blanket on the floor by his feet and made a great show of turning away. 

Only then did the Crown Prince disrobe, with all possible speed. As he dried himself off with the towel, he heard the shifting and squelching of wet fabric behind him. He tried valiantly not to picture the girl undressing— and whether he was successful or not, I will leave you to imagine; but either way, the color in his cheeks would not abate.

In short order, he was wrapped in little else but the woven blanket, secured with many clever knots. The girl — now also clad in a fresh gown — spread their clothes out before the fire and took the little kettle from the hearth. From this, she poured a steaming brew into two cups and handed one to him.

Their fingers brushed as he took the cup from her, and _something_ passed between them — something akin to the first lick of warmth after coming in out of a winter’s night. Once more they gazed at each other, much like they had a mere hour ago — and had it truly only been an hour since they met? For somehow it felt _right_ to be here with her, to warm him at her hearth. Mortal though the girl was — though they both were — there was yet some kind of magic there in the tower room with them.

This time, it was the Crown Prince who looked away first. He felt it no less than she; but his upbringing at court had rather encouraged him to hide his emotions (strong as they were), rather than wear them openly on his face, as he suspected he did now. “Thank you,” he murmured. He lifted his cup in a shy sort of toast, then took a long draught. 

The girl nodded absently. Then she burst out, “I _am_ sorry I have nothing else for you to wear. I…” She spread her hands and gestured at the entirety of the room, rather abashed. For perhaps the first time in her life, she realized how strange and small she must seem, and something in her shrank a little. “I have never had reason to have men’s clothing lying about.”

This meant that she had no lover, and the Crown Prince thought of it with a sort of wild hope — which he promptly quashed, as it seemed rather ungallant. “Then you live here alone?”

“Aye.”

He gaped at her. “How do you _eat_?” 

“I keep a small garden below,” she said, shrugging again as she seated herself opposite him. “You were too spent from the river to see it earlier.”

“Are you an anchoress?”

"No!" 

He could not help smiling as she made a face, her pert nose wrinkling with distaste. “What then?” 

“It occurs to me, sir,” said the girl, drawing herself up, “that we are on very unequal footing. You have had many answers of me, yet I know nothing of you.” 

“A fair maiden singing alone on an island in a river?” The Crown Prince raised his cup to her once more. “You are something out of a wandering minstrel's tale if I ever heard one! How could I not have questions about you?”

“And you, sir,” she replied, refusing to look away even as she blushed faintly, “are the only man fool enough to try and swim to Jakku! Of course _I_ have questions for _you_.” 

His answer caught in his throat as her words sank in. There were precious few who would address him so boldly, even among those who had known him long; and he knew not whether to be amused or affronted. "You think me a fool?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. “If I had been a fairy or a witch indeed, your tale would perhaps be quite different."

In this she was not wrong. But to hear her speak so frankly made him feel like a chastened schoolboy; and he frowned a little. “Very well, I take your point. Now that we have established that we are both very curious creatures, will you answer my questions, if I answer yours?”

Her gaze sharpened. “Only those that please me.” 

“Then I am at your disposal, my lady." He bowed, as elegantly as a man of his size could bow while seated on a rather small stool. "What would you know of me?”

She shook her head. “I am no lady, sir. I am only Rey. And you are…?”

“Ben,” said the Crown Prince. “I am only Ben.”

“Why did you swim across the river?” 

“Because I wanted to know who sang so sweetly.”

Rey seemed not to know what to say, and her eyes darted from Ben, to the floor, to the mirror, before she answered: “It helps pass the time.” 

She might not have been an anchoress, but to Ben’s eye, she certainly seemed busy enough to pass for one. Opposite the window stood a large loom, boasting a half-finished tapestry of a procession on horseback. Beside it was a mirror, precisely angled to reflect the scene outside the window. The walls held a variety of charcoal sketches — flowers, birds, human figures, and more — but one wall was entirely covered with tiny charcoal tallies, neat and uncountable. 

She was a mystery indeed. She breathed and spoke and moved like any other lady. And yet — though he could never have explained it, had he been asked — Ben suddenly feared that he had crossed into some beautiful, unchanging shadow-world. 

Meanwhile, Rey looked at the fine clothes spread before the fire, and then at the broad, strong bulk of her strange guest. “And,” she said, drawing him from his reverie, “are you a knight, Ben?”

“Yes.” 

“Oh, then you must have been to many tourneys!” Rey cried. “Please tell me about them!”

Ben blinked, surprised and charmed, as she went on, “Every so often I see knights and ladies riding down to the castle. And I hear the trumpets and the music and the cheering, though faint and far.” Her voice turned wistful, and she glanced at the mirror as though it were a true window. “It sounds wonderful. I’ve always wanted to see one.” 

“But then why have you never gone?” 

At this, the joy faded from her face. Her next words came slowly, as if dragged from her. “I cannot. I cannot leave this tower.”

And there it was, the heart of this mystery. “Why not?”

"I—” She looked as if she would say more, but then turned away, eyes downcast. “I cannot. Please do not ask me any more."

Ben's curiosity would have had him press further. But he saw that if he did, Rey would likely cease to speak to him altogether; for she either could not or would not say. And he was unwilling to break the spell between them so soon. So instead, he told her of the tourneys at Alderaan castle, as she had asked. 

He talked of knights arrayed in fine, shining armor, galloping full tilt at each other in the joust and proving their valor in the melee— of noblemen, young and old all in a row, plying their skill at the archery contests— of ladies’ favors, tied on their champions’ lances or tucked beside their hearts. He talked of fantastical heraldic beasts and colorful silken banners— of the prizes of gold and jewels, honor and renown— of the music and singing between the sport.

Though he had been obliged to take part in the tourneys, he had never much cared for the noise and the pageantry. But Rey listened with keen eyes and a bright smile, even leaning forward in her seat at times; and he thought that for such a look, he would have jousted in as many tournaments as she pleased. When he had done, she quipped, “And how did you fare in the lists, sir knight?”

“Well enough, I suppose,” Ben said, with half a smile. Rey’s heart beat a quick, odd beat at the sight, but he did not notice. “But in truth, I have watched more often than taken part. I may be a knight, but I am a poor one — I have always preferred books and writing to swords and jousting.”

“A scholar?” Rey leaned her cheek upon her hand. “Perfect. Will you tell me a story, then?” 

“I— what?”

“You have had two songs of me. I think it only fair that you enrich my store.”

Once more taken by surprise, Ben told Rey a tale that had been uppermost in his thoughts for some time. “Once upon a time,” said he, “there was a young boy taken from his mother and raised to be a knight. He grew to become the bravest, fiercest warrior in the land, and his valor won him great renown. 

“There was also a queen — they say she was the wisest and fairest woman ever seen in those parts, with strength and grace in equal measure. The knight and the queen fell in love and married; and his love for her burned as fiercely as his fervor in battle. He loved her so much that the thought of losing her was nigh unbearable. He feared it so much that it haunted his dreams — and then his waking hours. He became so desperate that he—” Ben paused in his tale, his jaw working soundlessly. It seemed as though he no longer saw the little tower room, gilded by the light of the fire and the setting sun, but rather something, or someone, long ago and far away. 

Rey waited a while. When it looked as though he were like to be swept away by his melancholy, she recalled him with a quiet, “That he what?” 

With a deep, shuddering breath, Ben continued: “He made a pact with the Devil. ‘I will do anything you ask,’ he said, ‘if you will give me the power to save my wife.’ And so the Devil did — but it was all for naught. The knight became a twisted shadow of his former glory, and the queen could not bear it. ‘I do not know you anymore,’ she cried. 

“In his wrath, he slew her — his beloved wife, for whom he had bartered his soul — and not even his most stalwart comrade-in-arms could turn him from his dark path. The knight was left to bear the weight of his sins for the rest of his days, his heart now as black and cold and dead as his armor.”

When Ben had done, there was silence, broken only by the quiet crackling of the logs in the hearth. Then Rey spoke: “I cannot make a song of that. It is too tragic.” She dashed a hand across her eyes (Ben briefly wished for a handkerchief to give her) and continued, “That is a _terrible_ story!”

“I did not write it,” he said, stung. “It—” 

He had never spoken of this to anyone, though in truth, his mother and uncle’s knowledge was burden enough. Part of him did not want to tell Rey, afraid that she would look at him with fear and distrust — the way he had, at times, seen his mother, father, uncle look at him when they thought themselves unseen. But having now said it, he could not unsay it, and so he went on. “It is my family’s tale,” he said quietly. “The knight was my grandfather, the queen my grandmother. My mother and uncle fear I am too much like him.” He raised a hand to the little dark marks on his face.

Rey’s eyes were wide, and Ben flinched away. But then she laid her hand upon his, and he looked up at her with a quiet gasp. “But you are yourself,” she said, her eyes now soft in the firelight, “not your grandfather. You are Ben, and your tale is unfinished. It may yet end happier than his.”

He could not look away from her. “How?”

She tipped her head to one side, watching him gravely. Then she smiled — a small, secretive thing — and began: “Once upon a time, there was a knight named Ben. He read much and spoke well, and was gentle and handsome besides.” 

From any other lady, Ben knew, this would have been flattery. And surely it was only that Rey had not seen many men to compare him to; but still he could not quite deny the warmth shyly uncurling somewhere within his chest. 

Rey, meanwhile, continued unaware. “All these gifts he had, but also a dark stain upon his family’s past. It saddened those around him; and this in turn saddened Ben. But he would not be daunted.” She shook her head, still smiling. “Nay, he rode the length and breadth of the land, winning duels, vanquishing brigands, and slaying dragons. News of his great deeds preceded him wherever he went; and when Ben finally returned home it was to great rejoicing. For his mother and uncle now knew him for a worthy son and a peerless knight — and so he continued for the rest of his days.”

At court, Ben had often heard bards and minstrels sing of knights and ladies falling in love at first sight. He had also borne witness to Sir Poe Dameron’s many professions of the same, claiming to be dying of love for this or that lady after a single afternoon in her company. Then he had scoffed at his friend’s folly, had scorned the idea of falling in love on little time and less knowledge.

Well, more fool him, I suppose; for Rey’s simple, honest words had touched him where the studied compliments of his mother’s courtiers could not. And reason though he might that it was madness— that he had known her only half an afternoon— that he did not _truly_ know her, nor she him— he could have kissed her for it. 

He very nearly _did_ kiss her for it, as they sat there with hands clasped, as Rey’s eyes shone warm at him in the firelight. He had leaned halfway towards her mouth before he remembered himself; and so he lowered his head and kissed her hand instead — though with no less ardor. “Thank you,” he murmured. 

The night was warm, and the fire was warm; and yet Rey shivered as Ben’s lips brushed against her skin. It gave her a strange thrill, too, to see his dark head bent over her hand. “My pleasure, sir knight.” 

“It was a fine tale.” Ben had now lifted his head, but still held her hand, clasping it in both of his. “I fear you may have forgotten a bit of it, however.”

“Oh?” She meant to be saucy, but was rather too breathless to carry it off. 

“One day, this knight-errant chanced upon an island in a river, where stood a lone tower. He heard such sweet singing from there that he knew he _must_ learn who dwelt within. 

“Lo and behold, it was a brave and fair maiden named Rey. She saved him from the river as he tried to swim across, and offered him the hospitality of her hearth. In this, she had done all that a guest — especially a strange, unwelcome guest — might expect. And yet, she was kind enough to listen to the knight’s tale of his family’s woe. She…” He stopped, and for a moment could only press her hand as he struggled for speech. “She spoke to him as if he were more than the scion of a tainted sire. She knew him not, and yet she saw light in him. And that meant more to him than she could know.” He trailed off, not realizing that he had begun lightly stroking his thumb across her knuckles. 

“And what then?” Rey, in her turn, drew closer, only half aware that she did so. They were face-to-face, and all around them was silence; and yet she found herself nearly whispering. “What became of the knight and the maid?”

“I do not know yet.” Ben’s voice was little more than a low rumble, his eyes dark and warm upon hers. “What would she have of him?”

What Rey would have answered, none shall know — for it was at this precise moment that they heard shouting and splashing. They sprang apart, and Rey rushed to her mirror. “I see torches,” she said, “a dozen of them, coming up the riverbank. And there are more on the river itself." She feared they were coming to take her away, and could not quite hide her distress as she looked back at Ben. "What is this fuss about?” 

Perhaps his training as a knight had been useful after all; for in that instant, Ben knew what it was to want to leap to a lady’s defense (no matter that the only thing resembling a weapon there was the iron poker for the fireplace). “It is me they seek, I think,” he said, moving to look out the window. “I have never been away from the ca— from home so long before.”

“So many out to search for one man?” 

Then, from far below, a shout rang out clearly: “OI! Your Royal Pain-in-the-Arse, where _are_ you?”

“Royal?” She looked confused, then accusing, and then shocked, all in the span of a moment. “You’re the _prince_? Why did you not tell me?”

“Forgive me,” he said, his hands outstretched imploringly. “I have been the Crown Prince all my life — I only wanted one day where I could speak and act freely, as though I were any other man passing by your island.”

Rey shook her head and turned back to the mirror, wrapping her arms around herself. “You should go, Your Highness. It seems you have been sorely missed. I thank you for your time.”

A more experienced lover — or perhaps a less honorable man — would have begged her not to part from him thus, would have drawn her into the elaborate professions of love-play. Ben, however, could only plead, “Come with me.” 

She whirled upon him. “What?”

“Come with me,” he said again. “There is a whole world out there, Rey — a world of music and bustle and cheer, yet you only watch it from your mirror. Why will you not come and live in it before it passes you by?”

It was the same question as before; but now Rey looked pained, near desperate, as she answered. “Ben— Your Highness— I _cannot_. Please, you do not understand— my parents—”

Ben was too impassioned to attend to the hint she had let slip. “Then may I come and see you again?” 

In truth, part of her did want to say yes — but she bethought herself of the curse, and so said, “No, you cannot.”

“As you wish,” he said, faintly amazed he could speak past the rising tightness in his throat. “Thank you for your hospitality, my lady.” Then he bowed to her again — so properly that Master Threepio would have wept for pride — and began to put on his now-dry clothes.

Rey bit her lip, feeling that she was on the brink of losing something rare and precious. “But—”

At once, Ben turned back to her, feet yet bare and shirt only half laced.

“But will you write to me instead?” She rushed on, made both shy and bold by Ben’s hopeful, wondering eyes upon her. “It seems the more practical thing. It is unlikely that you will have much leave to walk abroad in your usual manner, after the ruckus you have caused tonight.”

He laughed quietly, a half-amused and half-rueful sound. “You have the right of it, I think.” He tied the laces of his shirt and put on his boots; and then he promised her, “I will write to you, Rey. For as long as you wish me to.”

“I am glad,” she said, and meant it. “Thank you, Ben.”

Ben was now fully dressed, and Rey had said her piece; yet still they stood there gazing at each other, neither willing to be the first to break the spell. Yet break it one of them must, for the cries of the search party grew louder and more frequent. And once again it was Ben who spoke first. “I must—” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the door.

Rey nodded. “Yes, go; your subjects await.” 

“Farewell, Rey.” And with one more long look at her, Ben set off down the winding steps of the tower. Rey stood in the doorway and watched him go. And when the door below had shut, she rushed back to her mirror, there to watch his progress. 

* * *

You may well imagine the alarm of the search party when they found Ben on Jakku. He had begun to fashion some excuse to keep them from coming ashore, remembering Rey’s alarm when she thought they had come to storm her tower. But happily for the knight and the maid, superstition outweighed curiosity; and Ben was whisked back to the castle with all possible speed.

He looked back at the island as they rowed away. The boatmen noticed this, and began whispering among themselves that the Crown Prince had been bewitched. Ben heard but did not attend; for he was too bereft at not catching a last glimpse of Rey in the window.

Back at the castle, Ben had first to reassure his mother of his safety, and then to submit to the ministrations of the castle apothecary, a hardy old woman barely half his height. It was only after she ascertained that he had suffered no ill effects from his afternoon swim — indeed, that he was perfectly hale — that he was finally free to go. And go he did — directly to the dovecote. Now the keeper, Tai, was his friend, and naturally had been part of the search party that evening. So it was that before Ben could say a word, Tai cried, “What on earth happened to you today, man? You set half the castle in an uproar!”

“I met her,” said Ben, “the lady who lives on Jakku.” Then he told Tai of that afternoon’s events; and the other man listened and understood. 

When Ben had done, Tai nodded sagely. “Then the men were right. You _have_ been bewitched.”

Ben blinked and shook his head. “No, no, Rey is as mortal as you or I.”

“Aye, but she has bewitched you all the same.”

Ben chose not to answer this, and instead asked, “Will you lend me your best-trained pigeon?”

“Of course. How can I refuse my friend and my prince?” Tai touched the pigeon’s cage. “Write to your lady fair, then, and come back on the morrow, that I may teach you to dispatch and recall the bird.”

And so it was that Ben ended that most eventful day in the solitude of his chambers, a lone candle burning on his desk as he set quill to parchment. He debated beginning with a properly courtly salutation, but dismissed each one in turn and wrote, simply:

_Dear Rey…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is it really medieval literature if they don't sit around telling 4,000 words' worth of stories huehuehue


End file.
